The first dinner I ever hosted in the United States was the spontaneous act of a homesick college freshman. I had nowhere to go during spring break, so I cooked maqlubeh (spiced rice, eggplant, and chicken) and, true to my culture, made enough to feed any student left behind in the dorm.
My first daughter was born in a London hospital, but her surroundings soon felt very Palestinian. By 6 a.m. the morning after she arrived, my mother had brought ijjeh (a herb frittata often made for new mothers) stuffed inside a pita slathered with labneh (a strained yogurt) to my bedside. In the afternoon, she returned with hilbeh (a fenugreek-semolina cake), purported to improve milk supply.